La Jupe Verte
by N. Risa
Summary: "We were created to look at one another, weren't we" ― Edgar Degas [[Dedicated to AitchDee]]
1. Première Danse

𝕀.𝟙

In truth, she had about seventeen years on her when his existence became relevant. Back in those days, her life seemed to be filtered through hours of bone-crushing practice and her overwhelming anxiety. By dusk, her feet had become swollen and sore. Her hair — _usually_ _confined in a bun _— would've been begging to be released and her clothes would have always been a dusted mess.

Where she was, the room was still; lighting purposely dimmed as a sign that their instructor had left for the day. Hushed whispers and giggles made the usual 6pm ambiance. Most of the girls would loiter after hours; their personal high school dramas becoming the most interesting talk of the day.

The room somehow had a distinct smell to it; sweat, perfume and ash. And God help them, they've come to find it comforting; faces smiling through bored eyes, hands always covering a foreign object, attention always dedicated to something other than their body's excruciating pain.

While one girl rubbed sports' balm on her stiffened thighs, Jennie swore she shattered her phalanges this time. She mused hiding her fractures was a bad idea, but the rush of the routine had been worth her trials. Princess on the other hand had been contemplating adding in extra hours after dark; her fouettés becoming a concern as of lately. There was fear and hesitation in them; the type that'd get her kicked out the line-up, the type that'd keep her away from the curtains. But for now, she only stretched her legs, making the bits of conversation sooth the numbness of her feet.

Her eyes glanced to Buttercup's frame and how her arms just seemed to flail over the back of her plastic chair. It was evident the girl had it rough; the discomfort still painted on her face despite her tossed pointe shoe. "You cool down?" She half asked. Civil being the main theme of the day.

Buttercup swung her head around, barely giving Princess a nod. "Yeah, done for the day," she managed, letting echoes of the day pass through her mind as she pointed her gaze back to the platinum lighter in her hands.

She flicked it — _must be once or twice_ — before a spark came into fruition and she reluctantly placed the now lit cigarette stick between her teeth. "Two months," she hissed, her plans for the future dwindling in her head, "suck it up."

She barely sucked it, the taste being something she chose not to get used to. Her expression getting distasteful as she continued the act. There was a group near her, — _character artists —_ trying to pass off their bragging as a complaint and that simply forced Buttercup's eyes to roll. Her free hand flopped over the back of the chair as she took another reluctant drag. This… wasn't how she imagined or wanted her weekend to go. Not with a dark haze of a forced vice and most definitely not with cramping pain grappling her legs.

Admittedly, she was overstressed, overworked and felt all too underappreciated. Honestly, between her schoolwork, ballet practice and weight control, she just couldn't deal. But it wasn't like she could just up and quit. Hell no, not after all the time and effort she'd put into it!

You see, starting from her greatest of grandmothers, straight to her late mother, Buttercup's family had been all about ballet. So, who was she to disrupt that flow? To destroy her family's legacy — her mother's? You think she could confess that she probably wasn't quite cut out for this?

Buttercup had been in ballet flats before she could walk. While the other girls had been complaining about the discomfort their first pointe flats brought, she'd been perfecting her bourrée. While they fancied the idea of parading the stage, she'd been eating fudge pops and holding frivolous conversations with the director on it just because it was a Tuesday. So… to drop it… after all her hard work and tears? Well, 'giving up' was _never_ a Buttercup approved policy.

He had entered the room, his eyes tentatively studying the atmosphere. So lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice his close approaching footsteps, or the way the hushed whispers all but stopped in an instant. The girls were cautious, their eyes trained to the door as if expecting a second person.

Buttercup's eyes had been staring crestfallen at the chipped nail polish on her toes. She hugged the back of her chair; the white roll still bitten between her teeth. She wanted to spit that stick out on the ground and crush its embers with her feet, but she knew that desperation would force her to borrow another and repeat the stupid cycle.

"What's with you ballet dancers and smoking?" he had asked. Just his voice was enough to bring to Buttercup a swelling nausea. She didn't have to look up to know he was dramatically fanning the air, but boy did she want to give him the nastiest scowl she could muster.

It wasn't as if she hated Butch. Please, she barely spared him the thought! It was what he stood for. Butch… well, he was a quitter. He quit soccer, baseball, track club and just recently, she'd heard he even gone on to quit boxing.

Quitting….  
It was like a disease for him and his cheeky group of friends, and the one which annoyed her most was his best friend Blossom.

Damn.  
Buttercup really looked up to that girl. Her moves seemed flawless, her presence was outstanding, and her confidence was almost surreal. To Buttercup, Blossom was a prodigy. Blessed with poise, unbridled talent and inborn grace.

And what did she do with it?

She quit. Taped a pink letter on their dancehall's mirror and said she'd picked up ice-skating.  
_Ice-skating!_

Why?

Because she had a '_change of heart._'  
Such assness.

So now Buttercup — who had always been _next_, who was always _second runner up_ — was pushed into the spotlight and she just couldn't fucking deal!

_First Soloist?  
__**First**__ fucking __**Soloist**__?_

Buttercup's seen enough of the _Townsville's School of Ballet's_ version of 'First Soloist' to know that it was a euphemism for _Principal_. Her… being _Principal_… in high school? Well, only one word came to mind when she'd gotten the news and it wasn't '_honour'_; it was '_stressful'_.

Now, it was one thing to have so many people suddenly depend on her, but to stay skinny was another. She wasn't blessed with fast metabolism; she wasn't versed in all things _diet_. She freaking eats cream cheese bagels for breakf— _ate_… past tense. Why?

Well, apparently being 10 pounds above the _ideal weight_ was a big deal seeing that her partner threatened to quit. Since his arms weakened with each successive lift, their Pas de deux was a failure and of course, the blame was gift-wrapped and sent to Buttercup's doorstep.

The jerk!  
Didn't he know how humiliating his '_confession'_ sounded in front of girls like Princess or Jennie? Who was Elmer to complain? If he'd dedicate half the time he wasted talking down on others in… well, the gym, then maybe there'd be nothing to complain about. But whatever, just like those diet pills, she was over so it.

Her feet throbbed and he wasn't even worth her sighs. But, if she'd allow herself to be honest once in a while, she'd admit to slacking off in that area eons ago. It's just that… talent surrounded her. And then there was Blossom. A freaking headliner. Hell, that girl's shadow was big enough to hide half the team's shortcomings and now that she's gone…

Well, a part of Buttercup understood why she ran.

"What? Ignoring me again?" he asked, his white teeth flashing unusually sharp canines. He had a mind to tease her a bit, mess up her hair, take that dumb stick out her mouth, but the brat wouldn't even look at him.

It's just that, Buttercup hated people with a lack of responsibility. They always broke under pressure and choked when they're needed the most. Imagine how backwards society would have been if everyone had been like him — _or her_ — and gave up when the going gets tough and complicated.

_Just because Buttercup understood her feelings, doesn't mean she approved her actions._

When he showed no signs of budging, she looked up at him, her legs now wrapped around the back of the chair, "What's it to you?" the cigarette still between her lips and at that time, she even coughed.

_He wished it fell._

He grimaced slightly, the sight being something a bit mismatched. She didn't know it yet, but her mascara had been running, — _probably because a hot shower had been a bad decision on her part_ — and her foundation had leaked into an unblended mess.

His hands fanned away the smoke puff blown on his face as he glared. "Don't you care about your…" he coughed, swatting away her second puff from his face, "… health?" he snapped, her actions being something he wasn't used to receiving… especially from a girl.

"Again, what's it to you?"

Her unexpected resentment a bit baffling but moreover, she looked so freaking foolish that he just had an inkling to give her a lecture.  
"You're right," he rolled his eyes, his fingers quick to pull the cigarette from her lips. He watched her stamp her feet to the ground as she shot up from her chair. There was a noticeable pained expression on her face as she meekly staggered. Instinctively, he shouldered her stumble — _just barely_— but it wasn't without audible protests.

"There's a cream for that, I think," he offered, watching the darkening red patch on her left ankle, "You guys get paid, right? Spend a little, nobody should feel this tense."

"Don't touch me." she warned, her eyes landing back to the lighted splint, their blaring height difference making it a tad bit difficult to reach, "And my money's for rainy days. Mind yo' business."

He pretended to struggle against her resistance, looking at the ceiling because her fellow dance mates seemed ready for the kill. Those girls… that particular group, was Butch's worst nightmares personified.

"But… your family have money…" he asked, suspicion beginning to seep in, and it wasn't without cause.

"Didn't you finish high school eons ago?" her quick retort. Forget her aching legs, Butch had really gotten on her nerves and she just wanted to —

"Wow," he fake gasped, "Yeah… Almost two I guess," he squinted trying to find the butt of her insult.

"So, what's a college kid doing hanging out here with a high schooler?"

"Okay first, _rude_," he laughed, pulling his free hand away from her reach, "Second, you gotta be this tall," he said pulling the cigar over his head, "To one-up me… shorty."  
And Buttercup couldn't believe the smug look on his face as he dragged _her_ cigarette to _his_ lips. The fucker even smiled before he took a whiff, his nose quickly scrounging as he inhaled the fumes.

_Fuck that shit_.

"That's what you get for being a dumbass," she grinned, watching the boy bent over his knees with a nasty coughing fit. Her hands were stretched out as she resignedly tapped her feet to the ground, the pain was something she continued to ignore during her sighs, "You done yet?"

His eyes briefly looked up from the ground as he tried to catch his breath, "_This_ is supposed to be calming?" he half-shouted, and it took what little will power of his to manoeuvre from her hands. By now they had a mini audience; mini, because most the academy was so over him and his unwanted visits.

"Give it back, Butch!" She ordered, her voice forming an unusual rasp. Brown eyes narrowed hellishly from a distance.

He wanted to laugh but teasing just felt like the better option in that moment. "We're on a first-name basis now?" he asked playfully, pushing it back to his lips and biting down hard on it with his teeth. Now, he honestly had no intentions of taking _another_ puff from that death stick, _**but**_, pissing her off was kind of fun and who was he to pass up on a good time?

"Gross," she complained, landing a firm —_which, to Butch was pathetically weak_ — punch at the side of his chest. "Ouch," she complained, flickering her hands whilst grunting some _really_ colourful prose.

"Cigarette smoke kills," he said, returning the favour of blowing a cloud of smoke into her face. She choked on the fumes; a mist of his evening snack was also caught in the air. So, while her innards died by the scent, he stomped the embers off into the ground watching her glare as he ground it till it splintered.

"Eww, you ever brush?" and when he only shrugged, she clarified in a rasp, "Dude, it keeps us skinny… Mind yer business."

His eyebrows seemed to knit together as he thought a bit on her words, "But… you're skinny enough." The words slipping off his tongue without his realization. It's not like he could judge her now, he'd done stupid things to bulk up in the past and he clearly saw that she wasn't into the habit either. It just, annoyed him.

"Yeah, for crops de —" she stopped at his confused expression, remembering that Butch probably wouldn't even know what a first position was, "Back up," She explained. "Fit enough for back up."

Heck, by now she didn't even know why she was indulging him… or why she was still there in the first place. She had felt the urge to clarify her actions… just because he looked at her with such disappointment.

"When your girl quit, I became _lead_ so now everything's changed. Yah know?"

_He doesn't._

She gulped as her words of shameless blame game met her ears. It wasn't what she wanted to say, and it was a far cry from her true feelings. Just, her mind refused to register her own laziness, so the burden was passed off to her predecessor. Then again, if she were to indulge herself in a pity party, how could a Polaris star like herself be compared to what she called the sun? Did that red-headed show-off even struggle?  
Did she even care?  
Was ballet a gift wasted on her?

A large part of Buttercup knew it was wrong to blame him or Blossom, but she was a juvenile going through her senior year, so excuse her if she just wanted an apology. Not that it was Butch's problem… and frankly, he hated the small accusation in her tone.

"So you out here killing yourself for a role you already got?"

"A _role_?" She scoffed.  
"_**A role**_?!" She soured, "It's not a freaking _role_, Butch! It's my life!"

Her outburst had done a good job on making her self-conscious about the awkward stares and whispers directed towards them. She knew exactly what questions were hidden behind those curious eyes, '_Why was_ _Butch here… again_?' but it didn't help her green anxiety friend from knocking at her front door again.

His hands made its way to his hips when he sighed. Him feeling comfortable in such a _no-Butch-allowed _atmosphere being a trait she found a bit… irking. He wasn't here for any of their teenaged bullshit, though, so he was going to continue his lecture until one of the girls had the gall to formally kick him out. "And are you happy with _this_ life you're going on about?"

"Since when do _you_ care about how I live _my_ life?"

"Who said I cared? I'm just talking." _Honest to a fault._

She inhaled a bit, not really caring for the conversation anymore and flickered her lighter. The flames oddly comforting to her. "This… you… ain't even worth it." She looked at his expectant seeming eyes and sat properly on the chair; making a full 180 and being the '_lady-like_' cliché the ballet students were rumoured to be.  
"Look, I have a paper due Monday. Thanks for wasting my time."

"Need help?"

"Go screw yourself," He watched her drag the chair to the corner of the room and unplugged her phone from the ground level socket. "Next week, girls."

"Whatever," she heard one mumbled, and she ignored the clingy cries of the ones who wanted her to stick around for a 7pm practice.

The sight of Butch was really irking and if her involuntary eye roll wasn't a sign, then her quick pace should have been the other.

"Wait." he muttered, settling his finger on his cheekbone for a scratch.

"What is it now?" she asked, her eyes watching the time on her phone.

"Blossom left some… uh stuff? You know where it is?" he asked shyly, the change in demeanor making Buttercup unusually weirded out.

"Dunno, go ask one of the _other_ girls."

"But I'm asking _you_." He pouted, and when his eyes accidentally made contact with a certain brown-eyed girl's glare, he groaned, "What're you looking at?"

Almost as if that was a cue, some phones had been directed towards Butch, and the ones which weren't had either been charging, texting or taking _aesthetic 'dance-life' _selfies.

"A loser," Princess muttered, almost finishing her make up, "Honestly, I feel like I need a second shower, today was brutal," she complained to the girl next to her.

"_You cool down?"_

"_I had to do a stretch after shower," she groaned, her sponge being squeezed so tightly that its peach colour turned pastel pink._

"_Bummer, you really got __**drilled**__ today."_

"_Tell me about it."_

Now, had Butch not hated his ex of a she-devil, he would've just let bygones be, but she was an ass. So, forgive him if he wasn't too fancy about acting mature. "Piss off." Because fuck her, fuck her friends and fuck the broom she had lodged in her ass.

"Word of advice Jojo," she mumbled while rolling her shoulders.

"Pass."

"Excuse me?"

With his hands already firmly holding the doorknob, he repeated, very slowly and very arrogantly, "I said, _'pass'_."

𝕀.𝟚

Next Update: **August 3rd**

* * *

Jennie - S03E12 '_Equal Fights_'


	2. Acquainted

𝕀.𝟚

Caffeine. Buttercup had been low on caffeine. The smell of it teasing when she pushed on the glass door. As the overhead bell rung, a few stray eyes made its way to her tired frame. Some lingered for a while, their expressions varying, the others unbothered as they trailed back to their orders.

The place was jam packed. The sweet smell of pastries, coffee grounds and bleach complemented the tunes shared from the jukebox. The bustling waitresses had accents as bad as their uniforms and Buttercup had begun questioning her appeal to that place.

Literally three seats were free at the counter, the seating boots either occupied by rowdy families, or homely red-eyed teens with foul tongues. The audio seemed edgy in comparison to the melodious sounds of the violas, clarinets and piano notes she'd dance to.

She swallowed thickly, rocking on heels; feeling out of place in the muted atmosphere. Her duffle bag hung low, almost dragged to the ground as she neared the counter. Her mouth moving faster than her mind as her face bore an extremely tired expression. "Signature coffee with whipped cream… to go."

The young man turned from the other customer, his cloth wiping the counter. "It spoils it," he mused, his elbows on the counter as he shortened the gap between them. The rhythm of his words seemed jarred. It's melody lethargic; its texture, a dissonant collage.

"_How about I throw in some extra cream instead?"_

His suggestion had been foul, a bit like the damaged overhead lights. The way it flickered — _on and off_ — to its own melancholic beat was a comfort in a sense. Buttercup fixed herself on the vinyl barstool, dropping her bag in front her feet.

"The customer knows best," she muttered, barely looking at the man. Her phone bore two missed calls from her father and a couple unanswered texts from her school mates, "And could you make it with the double roasted pot?" The question being an unchallengeable request from herself.

"Gunna cost you extra." He squeezed his pencil, the force of its graphite nearly boring holes on the paper.

"I'm good for it." She replied, slowly trying to become melded with the ambiance.

The man nodded, ripping the page from the notepad and sticking it on the line near the beverage station, "For the kid," he muttered, eyebrows still knitted, innards of his cheek being chewed like bubble-gum. The overhead bell chimed; her eyes not bothering to give the arrival a glance.

Her stomach pained and it wasn't because of her apparent hunger. Having to '_suck it in_' for every turn, every lift; every fouetté had been torture. The greatest lie she'd been told was that '_it gets easier with time_'. You know… Buttercup was good, but she wasn't superhuman. Even though most the other girls in her studio simply couldn't compare, she still had some flaws to work on and she'd mused that'd been the reason her instructor had been so anal lately.

Practice had been a total bust. If it wasn't her self-esteem issues or her diffidence, it was her one-too-many missed landings. In comparison to her previous sessions, her extentions were subpar and her split leaps weren't as high as she'd projected them to be.

"And a plain donut," she echoed, resting her phone on the counter. She had two choices: lament about the day, or just fucking relax. And honestly, the latter had been long overdue. An exhausted sigh left her lips and all she wanted to do was lay her head down and whine. But instead, his voice happened, and she was left tenser than before.

"Make that two."

_Butch?_

Honestly, had she known him — _or_ anyone else — had been following her, she'd have the decency to roll up in a joint classier than Donut Thing. Not that it was particularly run down, just that… after hours, Donut Thing had a known tendency to attract the stray cats and her _image_ was on stake now.

She watched the brown sludge foam into one of the customer's cup with unease, her eyes dare not look back. You know the classic, '_if I ignore it, it will go away_' mantra most people sang? Yeah, that was shit and she couldn't shake the idea that Butch was unfortunately breathing her air.

"So," he started, which cause her patience to run rather thinly. The server — _whose nametag seemed to be absent_ — had nodded, looking into his display for the aforementioned item. Butch barely squeezed himself between the seats, double checking whether she noticed his presence.

She hummed, reminding herself of violin notes as she reworked her routine in her head. Their instructor chose to focus on Pirouettes earlier and it unfortunately took a toll on her body. It wasn't that bad though. Something about the rush of the turn always hyped her up for the awaited landing, but whenever it faltered, her legs would redden from the scolding.

_She was supposed to be better than that._

Her balled up hands rubbed the soreness on her legs; her mind dramatizing the bruising as swelling welts under her jeans.

"So," his voice a bit louder. The woman seated next Buttercup sent a weak glare Butch's direction. Apparently, his back accidentally bumped her shoulder and the young woman'd been super pissed about it.

"Heard you the first time," Buttercup didn't even realise when her hands had reached for her phone, all she knew was that she'd been rechecking her old messages without an effort to reply.

"Okay?" he started, but she interrupted him before he got to say anymore.

"I don't know nothing about her stuff!" The music genre had changed, and the poor-quality audio became apparent from the lack of bass.

Butch's face expressed confusion, his back bumping into the woman's shoulder once more, and for the life of Buttercup, she just wanted to disappear.

"What?" his eyes not missing a single content from Buttercup's phone. "Oh right, you got that paper thing due, right?"

He heard her soft groan despite the background chatters. He saw how she shivered under that thick looking navy-blue sweater of hers and it somehow only brought him worry. "You ignoring me?" His voice a bit solemn and intertwined with the murmurs of the room.

"Gotcha," she clicked her fingers, wondering how fucking long it took for them to make her a cup of —  
"Thanks," she relaxed, the uncovered paper cup looking a bit, unfinished.

"Sprinkle cinnamon?"

Two bags were set on the counter, one for her, the other for Butch. "Gunna cost extra."

"For dust?"

"Not '_good for it_'?" His neck jerked oddly; his nose cocked upwards. The pitch evident that Bitchmas had come earlier than expected.

_Big city asshole._

Butch was snickering as she scowled. Her hands, unfortunately slower than his. "Just sprinkle it." His voice rough, his colour seemingly orange when his stiff twenty was pounded onto the counter. There was amusement in Butch's eyes when he did it… and despite her annoyance, Buttercup couldn't hide the odd sort of pride which seemed to have swelled on her face.

The man first squinted, inspected the money as if Butch was a hoodlum, before giving this shit eating grin that Buttercup wished would fall flat.

"_This one's on the house_."

"You don't say?" She'd been cheeky with the knowledge he'd been lying out his ass and had he dared charge her, she'd been flagging a manager for fraud.

Butch grabbed his donut, accidentally bumping into the woman's shoulder again. Her glare much harsher than before as she passed her hands through bleached pink hair. Again, he'd been unaware, too focused on checking if Buttercup'd been okay.

"You're all dead and depressed over your weight, right?" He balled his change in his hands, leaving the coins for the man's '_troubles._'

She paused to decorate her drink with cinnamon flakes, the finished product being camera ready.  
"I'm not depressed," the subsequent flash making her embarrassed. "Shit, forgot it on." She grumbled, taking yet another photo.

He furrowed his brows, waving his hands in front her camera to get some attention, "So you're just… dead?"

She scowled, having to angle her phone differently.  
"We're all dead inside _Jojo_," His pout evident as his tease was well-curved.

"Your dad's picking you up from here?" he asked, the sketch characters bringing to even _him_ worry.

She dipped her finger into the cream, careful not to touch the hot coffee below it. Her eyes seemed to glow as she tasted it and when she covered the paper cup with the lid, Butch realised something, "—_and you're not even listening_."

The cream poured out the mouth and Buttercup had the gall to act surprised at the overflow.

"Look, I said it before an I'll say it again, I don't know where Blossom's stuff is, so go…" she shooed him with her hands, "bother someone else."

A lot of things had happened which left her in a daze. Butch refused to take her money. As expected, her arguments against it had been weak. Since the fight she put up in the diner had embarrassed herself more than him, she found herself being walked… to the bus stop… by him.

.

"So, you lied?" she clarified, taking a well-deserved sip of her drink. With the cool October breeze, warm streetlights and the hint of the night's stars, Buttercup felt almost relaxed.

"Yup." Naturally, Butch held her bag. To him, it felt like the least he could do… to… uh, make sure she didn't run away… again.

Her first attempt was a bust. Poor girl ended up forgetting her bag when she dashed out the door and guess who was holding it when she returned? Butch didn't even try to spare her his laughter when she stormed in, face pink-flushed and her eyes crazed and darting **everywhere**.

As she walked, he'd noticed her stray hairs still stuck to the side of her ears but at the very least, she'd caught back her breath. "About?" Her eyes peeped at his calm expression, still looking for his ulterior motive.

"_Actually_," He was an overgrown kid, scratching his nose with such an awkward smile, "Dropped in to check on yah."

"Uh, huh," she nodded, keeping her donut bag under her chin as her hands dug for her phone.

"_What_?" there was an alarm to it, his melody was a bit… frazzled. His tune not something she could easily decipher.

Her fingers scrolled across three numbers; the brightness of her screen and the darkness of the evening making them _very visible_ to Butch's eyes. "Oh, come on!" His voice like a blue tone: _flat thirds and sevenths_. "You are _not_ calling the cops on me."

She shrugged, "Stranger danger?"

"Seriously?" he whined, "I just wanted to talk!" his voice quickly moving to a G minor; his notes becoming a symphony worth listening to.

"Uh-huh," Her hands circled the call button, her eyes keeping track of minor details like his swallow, or the way he sniffled and pinched his nose repeatedly. "Yeah, that's gross; I'm a child."

"_Sure_ you are." _F major._

She elbowed him, "It's a real threat, you know?"

He dipped his head into his brown paper bag, taking a bite of his donut, "So is prank calling the cops."

"But that's not a threat dumbass."

"You know what?" he grinned, his frequency changing, the pitch something she couldn't quite comprehend.  
"You may be on to something there! Heard it was an offense."

_He played her well._

"Oh, screw you!" she complained pushing him slightly, cringing as she realised, she'd squished her donut. "Great." _And coffee splashed out the mouth-opening._ "Just great!"

"Hey? Where's your dad?" she walked a bit slower, as if thinking over an excuse and he was quick to hand her a napkin, hoping she didn't burn herself with her playfulness.

"What's it to you?" _Snark_, because she didn't owe him a proper reply.

"You see? This is why you worry people."

"Y—" she scoffed, "I'm supposed to believe you're worried?"

"I mean… yeah. I am now." He admitted, "Your life's a mess," he started, "No judgement." His hands held up in surrender.

"Gee, thanks." She scorned, "Really appreciate your concern."

"Remember when we were friends?"

"Um," _genuine confusion._ "No, I actually, don't _quite_ remember that." _Followed by sarcasm._

"You do, but you're pretending you don't."

"Must not have been quite memorable."

"Wow. Okay. _Rude_."

"Whatever." She drawled, finding comfort from the bus stop's bench.

"About the cigarettes."

_Out of all times to mention it._

Her eyes nearly doubled in size as she rushed to cover his mouth, her donut bag covering his lips. "Don't talk so loud." Her warnings forced into a whisper. When he'd calmed from the initial shock, she got off her toes, shuffling her feet on the pavement, her hands somehow still there; straining. "_It's only once a week… and I __**never**__ finished it._"

So, he forcibly removed it, uncomfortable with how shaky it had felt, "Until it becomes twice a week, then once a day and before you know it, you're finishing half a pack by **midday**."

She couldn't understand his anger.

"I know what I'm doing!"  
So she fought back. Spinning on her feet before sitting down. Funniest part? Despite her obvious exhaustion, Buttercup was dying to return to the academy and dance her problems away.

"Well you don't look too hot these days."

"Gross. You hitting on me, old man?" she joked, trying to shake her embarrassment off.

"Buttercup," Butch digressed, "Two years difference… old man? What _the fuck_?" He stood in front of her, arms folded and her bag still on his shoulder… and honestly? He'd been past persistent by then.

"Well," she smiled, "You know how the saying goes. Starts at two, then'll jump to four years and before you know it —"

"Are you kidding me?" he laughed, dropping her bag on the free space next to her.

"You'll be marrying your daughter's barely legal arch-nemesis from gym class."

"Wow, specific much?" He was cautious of the space between them, making sure her bag would prevent an awkward situation.

She grinned, "Very."

"When's the next bus?"

"Time's it now?"

"Minutes to seven."

"The Seven-fifteen… probably."

He yawned, his eyes impishly following a teen struggle on heels, "So here's my suggestion…" poor thing'd given him the satisfaction of tripping and he'd taken another bite to supress his laughter.

"No offense, but I'm literally too tired to deal —"

"Jog."

"What?" Buttercup's conniption something he hadn't accounted for.

"No, no, wait! Just hear me out." He started, watching how withdrawn she'd gotten. Her attention floated to her empty cup of coffee and she shook it with discontent.  
"Once… at six A.M.… for about an hour," her silence was discouraging, but it wasn't as if he hadn't dealt with difficult people in the past, "then pick it up to Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays."

She remained wordless for a while. Empty cup grasped in hands, her flattened donut —_still bagged_ — resting on her lap, and Butch's mouth just seemed to be flapping to its own tune.

_She was actually just tired._

"_So_?"

"Sounds stupid."

Her stomach seemed to have growled at the wrong time and she thought she'd played it casual since she knew he'd heard it but…

"You hungry?" he asked. "Skipping meals too?"

She rolled her eyes, kind of offended that he thought so lowly of her, "Just caught me on a bad day,"

Unconvinced, he shrugged, "You worry people."

"By people… you mean Blossom, right? Wow! Can't believe she _actually_ sent _you_… to mother me?"

"Not exactly." He was quick to answer.

"Meaning?"

"I mean… you know?"

"I know… what?" _Why she didn't call an Uber, she hadn't the slightest clue._

"Well, heard you sprained your ankle last recital, so…"

"So…" Buttercup chuckled, finishing his sentence before he told a see-through lie, "Robin was the actual snitch? Should've known." She stretched out her legs, straightening it out and twisting her feet left to right.

"Nice Vans," he joked, "Heard they call those slip-ons the '_ballerinas'_ now."

"Uggh, you calling me a cliché?"

He shrugged, "If the shoe fits." And somehow, even after she nearly pushed him off the bench, they'd been laughing.

"That's the pink ones… mines black."

"Yeah, _BIG_ difference."

"You jerk! Just look what I'm showing you!" she shouted, twisting her feet again, "It's not that serious. Elmer's hands slipped during our lift and —"

"Who's Elmer?"

"My new dance partner."

"New?"

"Yeah…. long story about that one…" he swore he saw her cringe, "And Elmer's a fill in… don't wanna talk about it."

Butch nodded, secretly happy that he was getting somewhere, "So he's the reason you wanna be skinny?"

"It's… he's not…" she sighed, and her hand movement had become more animated as she eased into Butch's company, "My size… is _not_ the problem, my weight is… I guess." Her hands flailed awkwardly as she tried to find the right words and she may not have known it, but her face had bore her struggles.

He eyeballed her, his mind recalling someone unpleasant, "Princess's heavier than you." The statement as true as it was irrefutable.

"But she's taller? So it balances out?" she asked, not too sure herself, "Dude, why do you even care?"

"Come on!" he couldn't help but get offended, "When someone you know is drowning, wouldn't you try to save them?"

She smirked, "I can't swim."

He squinted, "But you'd go call a lifeguard, right?"

She shrugged, "Maybe… I mean, I get what you're saying but…"

"But?" he questioned.

"It still doesn't make sense."

"Why not?" His ballad changed to an upbeat melody of G and D# minors and the only question running through her mind was '_Why_'?

"Cause we're not exactly friends."

"Well, we're not exactly strangers either."

"Yeah, but, you're not gonna gain anything from this so why're you wasting your time?"

"Cuz I'm a good person?"

"_Please_… you probably want something!" She'd pout before peripherally glancing him; feeling embarrassed from the mini temper tantrum she was throwing. "So what is it?"

"Can't I just be a good person?"

Buttercup looked down to her empty coffee cup, her smile sad suddenly.

"Because everyone wants something."

"That's a bad outlook on life"

"But did I lie though?" His eyes not once missed the chance to check his watch. "Ignoring me again?"

"Probably…. And well, thanks anyway." She said humbly, "I owe you."

"_For_ _the_ _coffee_?"

She shrugged.

"Forget about it." He had an idea. "Well, if you really mean it then—"

"I am a _child_." She joked, and his nose scrounged to her reference.

"Yeah, that'd be gross…" he rolled his eyes, catching her insult, "But seriously. Jogging, Saturday mornings. I'll join."

"Can't do Saturdays."

"No one's gonna believe you dance whole day."

"Hey, _genius_: I have homework…" she started, "And stuff."

"Then Sundays."

She pretended to give it thought wondering why he made it a declaration instead of a question.

"At six." _He was serious._

"The six being morning or…."

"Up to you, sunshine. I'm game for either."

She groaned, "Super creepy, dude!"

He scoffed at her stubbornness. "You just… reminded me of this friend I made my freshman year—"

"As in…" she couldn't believe his shit, "last year?"

"Shhh, it sounds cooler my way."

"If you say so," she mumbled. She'd already been watching the road in anticipation for the bus and she'd been annoyed it couldn't show up faster. "If your story's going dark, I'm not that kind of girl."

"So fucking annoying," the harsh stares from strangers being something Butch couldn't care less about, "All I'm saying is…" she cringed as he pat her head, the image that he'd licked his icing covered fingers had never once left her head.

"I washed it today!"

"And?"

"Dude just finish your sentence!" He couldn't believe she'd slapped his hand when she'd said it and Butch was left taking the defensive in that situation.

"Well stop interrupting me!"

She'd groan, watching the time on her phone with way too much dread for his liking. "Butch… I'm waiting for your point."

"Oh… we got a deal or not?"

"Your deal as shifty as your conversational skills?"

"Now that sentence… made no sense at all."

"Welcome to my world." Her sarcasm: _on point_.

Air brakes had drowned out most of what he said, and before she'd gotten the chance to ask him to repeat, he'd already helped her bag upon her shoulder.

"So we got a deal or not?" the humming of the vehicle becoming very distracting. It's dissonance completely messing with her inner harmony.

"What if I say '_no'_? Then what?"

"You get off practice at 6, right?"

"That's called stalking…" she reminded.

"Or… I could tell your dad… about the…"

"That one's called blackmail."

"Sounds badass!" Funny one — _that guy_. Buttercup'd been taking backsteps; practically letting _everyone_ on the bus before her, "Bus's here. Talk quick. Deal or no deal?"

Buttercup chuckled grimly, giving him a pat on the back before walking towards the entrance door. He could tell by her walk that she'd been enjoying it. Her feet moved with so much fluidity that it'd appeared she'd been dancing on clouds.

So there she was, showing the driver her transit card and Butch just refused to believe the balls on that woman! Hands cupped to his face, Butch shouted, "Jojo's at East Pokey Oaks! You have one week to reply." There was a threat hidden in his words, and by the way she'd been staring out the window —_glaring_— she'd caught it.

So yeah, she flipped him the bird as the doors closed but that couldn't wipe the satisfied grin off his freshly shaved face.

.

**A/N:** My keyboard's seriously trashed so I'm really sorry if some letters are missing/ misplaced.


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